plus another ten for me.
The problem she had with Darryl, the ingredient missing from the fraud triangle, was pressure. His background check hadn’t turned up any recent arrests or major health issues in his family. She’d had Inga read his social media posts last night while Mike snored in bed next to her, and found a parade of regurgitated memes and jokes with no measurable change in tone or frequency. She couldn’t find a source of stress—either professionally or personally—that would make him steal eight figures in a matter of months.
“How did you come to work for Strike, Mr. Nolan?”
“My brother-in-law was one of Logan’s coaches, so I knew her even before she was famous. She was always great. No bullshit, no pretense. With Logan, what you see is what you get, unless you’re in the ring with her. Then you get a lot more.” He laughed for the first time in the entire interview. “Anyway, when she started Strike she said something about needing a finance guy and the rest is history.”
Mild nepotism, not uncommon in private, family-owned businesses.
“Did you even interview or did they just offer you the job?” her analyst asked.
“The three of us went out to lunch. Logan was on board, of course, but Gregg was kind of an ass at first. I heard he personally checked my references. What kind of a control freak doesn’t leave that stuff to HR?”
So Darryl was Logan’s hire, and apparently another member of the Logan Russo fan club. Would an admirer steal money from the object of his admiration? Perhaps, but he was starting to look more like an accomplice—someone who would be happy to do a highly regarded boss’s bidding.
The analyst made a note as Nora stood, signaling the end of the interview. “Your current salary is a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, is that correct?”
He bristled, like most men did when she undressed their wallets. “What about it?”
“Significantly higher than the average controller in this market. And you received a six percent raise last year, above virtually any comparable company in our database.”
“I told you,” he took another gulp of the sludge in his mug before herding them out of his office. “The best vendors, the best tech, the biggest, splashiest tournament on the planet. And now the biggest fucking emergency we could have in a week like this, all because he spent us into the ground. Gregg Abbott doesn’t do average.”
With that, Nora had to agree. Unlike average business owners, who wanted to conceal as much of their dirty laundry as possible, Gregg had given her team unprecedented access to Strike’s books and people. He’d been open, candid, and unflinchingly honest, which made Nora wonder what exactly he was hiding.
If Gregg Abbott wasn’t average, his secrets wouldn’t be either.
GREGG
ON TUESDAY, less than eight hours before Strike Down began, I paced the marble tile lobby of the Grand Hotel Minneapolis next to a life-sized sculpture of a resting lion. Any minute I expected another lion to walk through the door, one who I was counting on to devour everything in her path.
The sumptuous space offered plenty of sleek couches and barstools, but relaxation was impossible. I’d spent the night at headquarters, tossing and turning on my office couch for a few pointless hours before showering in the locker rooms and starting on my opening day checklists at 3:00 a.m. I didn’t relish being in the locker room, not alone at night, when the HVAC noises twisted into odd echoes within the travertine walls, but it was better than being at the penthouse. I wasn’t sure what penalty I would face for telling Nora about Aaden and—out of the two choices—I took his ghost over Logan’s corporeal fury.
The hotel was serving coffee and scones in the lobby, and I had to remind myself it was still morning. The rest of the city hadn’t been working at a controlled frenzy for the past nine hours. Pacing the length of the lion sculpture, I scanned every person entering the hotel and scrolled through the emails, texts, and social notifications blowing up my phone. The director of events had emailed three times looking for Logan, who was due at the gym this afternoon for a VIP pre-party, and her tone was becoming increasingly unnerved. As I replied to her, someone at my shoulder softly cleared their throat.
“Is this a good time?”
I turned and fought a bubble of laughter. There was no such thing as a good time this week,